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KENSINGTON GARDEN.
The tale I hear'd whole winter-eves, untired,And sing the battles that my nurse inspired. Now the shrill corn-pipes, echoing loud to arms,To rank and file reduce the straggling swarms.Thick rows of spears at once, with sudden glare,A grove of needles, glitter in the air;Loose in the winds small ribbon streamers flow,Dipp'd in all colours of the heavenly bow,And the gay host, that now its march pursues,Gleams o'er the meadows in a thousand hues. Unseen and silent march the slow brigadesThrough pathless wilds, and unfrequented shades..In hope already vanquish'd by surprise,In Albions power the fairy empire lies;Already has he seized on Kennas charms,And the glad beauty trembles in his arms. The march concludes: and now in prospect near,But fenced with arms, the hostile towers appear,For Oberon, or druids falsely sing,Wore his prime visor in a magic ring.A subtle spright, that opening plots foretoldBy sudden dimness on the beamy gold.Hence, in a crescent form'd, his legions bright,With beating bosoms, waited for the fight;To charge their foes they march, a glittering band,And in their van doth bold Azuriel stand.
